


Detach

by stephanericher



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:42:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5569600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s already spent too much time thinking about things that are less than hypothetical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detach

“There’s no use trying to fix your hair when the helmet’s going to mess it up.”

Ren glares at Hux through the mirror; Hux returns his focus to shaving. It won’t do for him to cut himself with the razor, and perhaps more importantly he’s not going to give in and have a staring contest with Ren (not at this hour of the morning). And Ren’s too bleary-eyed to figure out a comeback this early; Hux pauses to rinse the razor and glances over to find him playing with a split end and staring straight ahead at nothing again, already distracted.

It’s horribly cute, but Ren often is in the morning (when he’s not being obnoxiously grumpy). It won’t last long—all too soon he’ll snap into focus and shake out his hair and roll down his sleeves and put on his helmet and gloves and the moment will pass. They’ll separate for the day at the door, each pursuing means to his own end (and any brief exchanges in between will be all too brief). There’s no point in wishing this segment of the day any longer; he’s already spent too much time thinking about things that are less than hypothetical. Hux scrapes the razor down his cheek; Ren turns. There it is.

* * *

“General.”

If Ren’s calling him by title alone (the flattery is ill-placed and half-sarcastic, but Hux will take it) it means he wants something, something to aid him on his next probably-fruitless quest for another heirloom of some sort, a discarded glove or encrypted drive full of some nonsense that even Ren can’t usually pretend is meaningful, and then he’ll get angry and destroy the precious resources he will have requisitioned, that Hux will have had to pull away from regiments while stretching them thinner and annoying the captains again. And unless Snoke changes his orders abruptly (which can’t be entirely ruled out, but is still not at all very likely) Hux will be stuck here on the base while he’s gone. And Ren can take anywhere from a day or two to a few months on these missions, depending on how obscure or important this latest item is, depending on how well it’s hidden or whether it exists or not in the first place—and Hux cannot block his selfish thoughts completely; despite the possible importance of this item he’d like to have Ren around more often, particularly when it’s only been a few weeks since he’d last gotten back.

“Yes?” says Hux.

“I need a ship.”

The control room, crowded as it is, always has a free terminal within reach; it’s only a few steps more before Hux is typing in his credentials to see what’s available. There’s not much, particularly with the third fleet off in the Outer Rim again; he scrolls through the list and frowns. Ren crowds in beside him, peering through the mask. Ren’s shoulder is nearly touching his, the millimeters between the stiff fabric of his jacket and Ren’s sleeve (those same millimeters that feel like astronomical units when they walk down the hall to see Snoke, as if gravity is pulling them away from each other) nearly nonexistent, as if they’re on a merging lane on a city street and very soon it will be just skin against skin. Hux leans in closer, and then Ren does, too; then their shoulders are pressed together and Hux can feel his body heat through the layers, the exact contours of his upper arm.

“I want that star destroyer.”

“We need it to defend the systems closest to Republic territories,” Hux says, scrolling to the next section.

“The Supreme Leader—”

“Does not control the fleets directly. I do.”

“It’s in your best interest that the mission succeeds.”

That much is true—if it succeeds, there’s less of a chance of Ren gutting the ship in a rage, and the troops will be all the better for it. But the success of the mission does not necessarily depend on the size of the ship, especially when it’s just about recovering some small relic, and Ren knows that damn well (and in that respect, the threat is empty). But regardless, sometimes it’s better to just let Ren have what he wants. Hux scrolls back, and he can almost see the half-smirk that’s no doubt gracing Ren’s features under the helmet. No matter. There won't be any compromise on the troops.

* * *

The setting sun is lengthening the shadows of the pines; streaks of black stripe the control center behind Hux as the afternoon patrol files in, pristine and orderly. The afternoon had been an uneventful one; and those are all around the best kind. There are no immediate threats to deal with, no paperwork to be filed, not a speck of dirt on any soldier’s armor, only a quick exchange of personnel to be made. But it’s a lovely evening; Hux breathes in the early summer air as the sound of the patrol bikes coming to life fills the air, the humming harmony of the motors rising like a chorus of cicadas until they fade out as the soldiers scatter through the forest.

Some object in motion gleams in the dying light; it catches the corner of Hux’s eye and he tightens his grip on his blaster—a moment later, he relaxes it; the sound of Ren’s footsteps on the grass is unmistakable.

“Hux.”

“Ren.”

A wind picks up over the forest; the leaves rustle in the trees and Ren’s cape blows back, snapping against Hux’s leg. Ren steps closer; the wind changes, blowing back. Hux gazes at the swaying trees, which by now look as if they’re made of nothing but shadow, backlit by the sun, whose shape is now completely obscured. Hux’s knuckles brush against the soft leather of Ren’s glove; he steadies his hand. It comes to rest like a docking ship, back-to-back against Ren’s, invisible under the shadow of ten times the length of the towering tree that casts it.

They don’t return inside until the shadows have covered every corner, until the sun illuminates only things past the trees and beyond the horizon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> may or may not be a companion to 'contact'
> 
>  
> 
> ....hux pov is hard


End file.
